


Let the Right One In

by Yavannie



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Birthday Party, Drinking, F/M, Fluff, Halloween, Introspection, Mistaken Identity, Pre-Relationship, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 14:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16266401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yavannie/pseuds/Yavannie
Summary: Loosely based on this prompt from Raptorlily:Betty and Jughead bump into each other at a Halloween Masquerade Party not realizing who the other is – cue an awkward morning after!When Jellybean talks Jughead into going to a Halloween-themed birthday party in Greendale, she does such a good job on his make-up that not even his best friend can tell it's him.





	Let the Right One In

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Raptorlily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raptorlily/gifts).



> For Raptorlily, who must suffer being the beta of her own gift fics. The title is from [John Ajvide Lindqvist's book](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Let_the_Right_One_In_\(novel\)), which I thoroughly recommend (the [movie adaptation](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Let_the_Right_One_In_\(film\)) is also v v good).

The boy in the mirror is not him.

Maybe it’s the contrast between the chalky white face paint and the sooty circles around his eyes, or the way the contours of his cheekbones and eyebrows look that much sharper. Maybe it’s the hairline, unseen he’s sure by anyone but himself for years, now suddenly defined beneath the shiny, sleek mass of black that’s slicked back over his head. Maybe it’s the white shirt, inexpertly ironed but surprisingly well-fitting.

Maybe it’s just the lack of his beanie.

“Looking good, bro,” says Jellybean smugly, sneaking up behind him to admire her work in the mirror.

Jughead’s immediate instinct is to snap back with something clever, but…she’s not wrong, actually. The cloak is especially appealing. Technically, he should feel ridiculous wearing it. He doesn’t. In fact, he feels like swinging his arm and sweeping out of the room dramatically like Tuxedo Mask. His fingers give a little twitch at his side, but he thinks better of it.

“Yeah, not too bad,” he says instead, but the smile he exchanges with his sister speaks volumes.

Like most 13-year olds, Jellybean had developed a sudden and burning interest in make-up. However, unlike most 13-year olds, she tended less toward pink lipgloss and foundation two shades too dark and more towards advanced cosplay. Now, with Halloween around the corner and a 9PM curfew, she’s taking out all of her fomo on Jughead.

 

* * *

 

He hadn’t planned on going to a party. He’d spent the majority of his teenage years up to and including this one being actively repulsed by the idea of going to a party. And he definitely should have thrown the invitation away rather than let it lie around on the counter for Jellybean to find. After she’d seen it, there was no stopping the begging and pleading and wheedling and bullying.

“You _have_ to go,” she’d said. “For me.”

“Why do you care anyway?” he’d asked.

“Because the mere thought of missing out is causing me physical pain, Juggie. It’s _Halloween_. People are going to go all in.”

“I don’t have a costume.”

“I’ll help you!”

Jughead smiled at that. “I know you would, because this is your thing, sis, not mine. So what’s the point in _me_ –”

“Pictures,” she said. “You’ll take lots of pictures. Let me live vivaciously through you!”

“It’s _vicariously_ , JB. And people already think I’m a creep. Sticking a camera in their faces isn’t going to help.”

“ _Lots_ of pictures.”

Somehow, they’d gone from that and on to haggling over details, and for every outfit idea Jellybean had thrown at him, Jughead had retorted with sensible arguments.

“What about Jack?”

“Jack who? The Ripper?”

“No, from _The Shining_.”

“Too obscure. Wait, when did you see _The Shining_?”

“I’m thirteen, Juggie.”

“Exactly my point!”

“Iron-Man!”

“Too expensive.”

“Okay… Budget version. Tin Man? We could make it out of cardboard.”

“Too time-consuming. And impossible to wear for more than fifteen minutes before itching to death.”

“The Mummy!”

“And what if it rains?”

“Werewolf.”

“Too expensive, JB.”

That last excuse kept coming up until she brought the cloak back from a second-hand shop, the day before the party. He opened his mouth to protest, but she interrupted him before he could get a word out.

“It was five bucks, Juggie. And don’t say it’s too generic. Vampires are _iconic_.”

“What about the teeth?” he said lamely.

Jellybean rolled her eyes and tipped her head back. “I’ll draw them on, you dork.”

 

* * *

 

The result, Jughead has to admit, is impressive. He’s barely recognizable as it is with all the makeup and the cloak, and the addition of his dad’s wedding-slash-funeral-slash-courtroom suit completes the illusion. His first and only time in dress pants he vows before turning around and subtly checking the fit in the mirror.

There’s no helping the shoes, though, and as he laces up his Converses he realizes there’s something else missing. It’s a birthday party, so naturally he should be bringing a gift. With a sigh, he goes back into the kitchen, opening the cupboards at random but finding nothing useful. For a minute he actually contemplates just staying home or maybe going to Pop’s to while away some time, but then an idea strikes him.

The bedroom in the trailer is as messy as ever but Jughead knows what he’s looking for. And sure enough, in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe lies not one, not two, but a whooping four bottles of cheap bourbon, rattling and chinking as he pulls the mesh basket out. Two of them are empty, but luck is on his side and one is still unopened.

Carefully, he wraps the whiskey bottle in his cloak and puts the bundle in his messenger bag before strapping on his helmet. Greendale is a good half hour ride away, but with the amount of gel JB slathered on, at least he doesn’t have to worry about helmet hair. Even though he’s had the sound on all evening, he pulls his phone out to check for messages, but there are no new texts, no notifications in the group chat. After a minute or two of wavering, he brings up the text convo with Betty and types a short message: _You at Sabrina’s?_

For a brief, bewildering moment, he considers snapping a selfie to go along with it, but then tucks his phone away again, telling himself he’s not going to wait around for an answer.

When Jellybean follows him out to see him off it's already close to midnight and mom still isn't back from her late shift.

“There's ice cream in the freezer,” he says, mussing her hair up playfully. “And no watching R rated movies alone, okay?”

“Pictures, remember?” she says. “And no kissing, or you'll ruin the fangs.”

He snorts at that. “Yeah, that's not going to be a problem,” he says before kickstarting the bike.

 

* * *

 

Sabrina Spellman had joined their Creative Writing class at the start of the year, two months earlier. With Greendale and Riverdale being two equally and hopelessly backwater towns, the respective high schools had a long-standing exchange when it came to electives, bussing students back and forth daily. While the Greendale crowd mostly kept themselves to themselves during those few hours, Sabrina had surprised them all one day by passing around invites for a Halloween-themed birthday party.

“Costume required,” she’d said to Jughead when she handed him the card; a simple, red square with the details written down in black sharpie.

It had been the last of the bunch, which came as no surprise to Jughead, used to ever being the spare. But then Betty had leaned back with interest from where she was sitting in the row in front of them, and before she could even ask, Sabrina had magically produced another invite from somewhere on her person.

“Are you going?” Jughead had asked Betty afterwards, thinking that if _she_ did, then maybe...

“I don’t know,” Betty said, thoughtfully turning the card over in her hands. “Depends on who else is going, I guess.”

 

* * *

 

Sabrina's house is on the edge of Greendale, nestled among yellowing maple trees and tall, dark firs. It's a run-down Victorian place, shrouded in evening mist, looking like it's plucked right out of a Halloween horror special. The sole pumpkin lantern at the top of the driveway that might have lead the way is a dark, sagging mess of orange and only adds to the eerie mood. Jughead hesitates before driving on, dry leaves rustling across the overgrown dirt track.

As he gets closer to the house itself, it becomes evident that he’s got the right address after all. There are a bunch of people in full costume standing around on the porch, wrapped in blankets and jackets, smoking and drinking underneath a string of fairy lights. They look on with interest as Jughead pulls up on his bike, the red glow of their cigarettes winking like fireflies in the dark. As he kills the engine, he can hear the muffled sound of 60’s soul music that abruptly turns loud and clear as someone inside slips out to join the smokers.

Before he goes inside, he gets the cloak and bottle out. The cape is heavy on his shoulders - a comforting kind of weight that makes him feel secure and enveloped. When he checks his phone for notifications, the lock screen is as empty as ever. Betty probably had an early night but he knows Archie is supposed to be here. However, the first person he encounters as he nudges the door open is Melody Valentine, strikingly beautiful as Queen Cleopatra, half-hidden behind a mountain of coats piled in an armchair. She’s on the phone, but looks up when he steps inside.

Melody has never spared Jughead a second glance. She never really spared him a first for that matter, but right now, she’s looking. Underneath the razor sharp, black bangs her face is so open, so curious, that Jughead almost turns around to see if there’s someone else standing there. Then she mouths ‘hi’ at him with a warm smile before turning around to speak in a hushed voice to whoever is at the other end of the line.

As he passes her, it strikes him that maybe she didn’t even recognize him, makeup and all.

He moves on, past the narrow hallway and into a sitting room. It appears the party has been going for some time. There’s a table in the middle of the floor where the remnants of a beer pong game can be seen alongside droves of empty, red cups, possibly from previous attempts. A group of people are lounging in the armchairs there, and although it’s hard to tell for sure when they’re dressed up for Halloween, Jughead is pretty sure they’re all local. One of them, a girl with gruesome zombie makeup, waves uncertainly and Jughead nods in reply before heading into the living room to go look for Archie.

The room is packed with people in costumes chatting and drinking and dancing. A guy in a nondescript animal suit is sitting cross-legged in front of the stereo, flipping through a box of old records, and next to him, Morticia Addams is helping a mummy patch up his wrappings with toilet paper. On the open space serving as the dance floor a fairy is making out with Robin Hood, and Jason Voorhees is slow dancing with Beatrix Kiddo. There are at least three other vampires in this room alone, but Jughead notes, not without satisfaction, that they’re playing in the little league when it comes to hair and makeup.

Over by the window he finally spots a familiar face; Trev Brown, dressed as Captain America. Jughead has complicated feelings about Trev. On the one hand, he’s pretty sure Trev is harboring a secret crush on Betty, which technically should make him Jughead’s secret nemesis, especially seeing as he’s irritatingly good-looking. On the other hand, he understands and respects Trev as someone who’s in basically the same situation as Jughead. Plus, he’s just a nice, all-around decent guy, to the point of being impossible to dislike.

So, to the window it is.

“Hey Trev,” says Jughead. “Have you seen Archie?”

“Ye-es…” says Trev slowly, frowning at Jughead. “He was in the kitchen earlier.”

“Thanks,” says Jughead, frowning back, since this is apparently a frown-worthy conversation.

“Do I know you?” says Trev then.

Jughead blinks at him. Is he _serious_? “Yeah,” he says, putting as much ‘are you serious?’ into the word as he can manage. “Three years sitting behind me in English class, you’d think–”

“Jughead?” Trev says with a gasp, his face breaking into a smile. His eyes flit up to Jughead’s decidedly hatless hair and back down again. “You look...different!”

“It’s Halloween, so,” says Jughead testily.

“It’s...good!” says Trev, motioning at Jughead’s suit. “Good costume. Great makeup!”

Jughead gives Trev a strained smile, mumbles ‘same’ and an excuse and then goes in search of the kitchen. On his way there he walks past Cheryl Blossom dressed as Poison Ivy, and the way her eyes pass over him feels almost surreal. Instead of doing what she usually does - deliberately ignoring him or, worse, scrunching her nose up like she’s just smelled something rotting - she scans his face without so much as an ounce of judgement, before apparently finding him uninteresting and moving on.

The feeling that grows in Jughead’s belly is a strange mix of bitter excitement. Cheryl doesn’t know him, Melody didn’t know him, and Trev wouldn’t have if Jughead hadn’t talked to him. He’s no one here, he thinks with mounting fascination.

No, that’s not right.

Not no one. _Jughead_ is no one. But right now? Right now he’s _anyone_. 

Archie isn’t in the kitchen, but Sabrina is. Not that she notices Jughead - she’s sitting on the counter, her attention undivided and firmly on the guy with his arms around her, currently giving her a slow, passionate kiss. Jughead turns around, embarrassed, then remembers the whiskey. He shuffles over to the rustic kitchen table and puts it down next to the myriad of bottles already crowding the stained wood, trying to make as little noise as possible.

“Glad you could make it, Jughead,” says Sabrina then.

Jughead flinches and glances over at her with a tight-lipped smile. “Happy birthday,” he says, picking up the bottle back up to give it a little shake.

“Thank you,” she says simply. Then she gives the guy wedged between her knees a pat on the shoulder. “This is Harvey, by the way. Harvey, this is Jughead Jones, from Creative Writing.”

“Hey,” says Harvey. “Good costume.”

“Thanks,” says Jughead. He knows the proper thing to do is to return the compliment, but the truth is, neither of them have made much effort. Sabrina is wearing a black pointy hat and a pink dress, and the only clue that Harvey is at a Halloween party at all is a hairband with cat ears. “What are you…” Jughead begins.

“She’s a witch and I’m her familiar,” says Harvey, and Sabrina nods seriously.

“Right,” says Jughead. The silence that follows seems to go on forever. “Have you guys seen Archie?” Jughead asks eventually.

Sabrina looks lost in thought for a moment before confidently declaring, “Upstairs.”

Then she pulls Harvey in for another kiss, and Jughead flees, nearly crashing in to the girl with the zombie makeup on his way out.

“Oops,” she says, holding her glass up to let him pass.

He mumbles an apology and makes his way towards the living room and the second floor.

The staircase is a worn, narrow thing, and even though the noise of the party drowns the sound out, Jughead can feel the steps creaking as he starts climbing it. Halfway up, he finally bumps into Archie. He's not even in proper costume, but has stained his letterman jacket and jeans with ketchup or something to make it look like blood, and he’s currently blundering down the stairs at such speed that he almost bowls Jughead over.

“Hey,” says Jughead, hand shooting out to stop him.

Archie spins around, a startled look on his face. “Heya, bud,” he says apologetically. “Sorry, didn't see you there.”

“It's a vampire thing,” says Jughead dryly. “You know, invisibility,” he adds, when Archie simply stares at him in response.

Archie shrugs, mumbles something inaudible, then turns around and continues on towards the ground floor, taking the steps two at a time.

“Okay…” Jughead says. To himself, since Archie is already well out of earshot.

Apparently, Jughead’s appearance at this party is so unexpected that with the help of Jellybean’s magic touch, not even to his best friend can tell that it’s him. He reaches for the phone in his pocket, then decides to let it slide. At least this is the ultimate proof that he’s well and truly unrecognizable. There’s something comforting in that thought - of being just another junior at a party, and–

A girl dressed in a flowing blue dress and an ill-fitting blonde wig squeezes past him on the stairs and then pauses, eyeing him with open interest.

“Hi,” she says in a light voice, her sluggish movements betraying how drunk she is. “I am Daenerys Targ... Torg... Taregyen. First of my name, Queen of the Andes or wherever the fuck…” She trails off and throws her head back with a laugh. “Oh my god I’m so drunk!”

For a moment, Jughead blanks, his mouth dropping open silently as he grapples for something to say. The girl takes that as an invitation to take a step up towards him, the cup in her hand wobbling alarmingly.

“Hi-i,” she says again, and Jughead’s brain finally jumps into gear.

“Bye-e,” he says, sidling along the wall, away from her and up the stairs.

“Hey!” she calls after him. “Rude!”

The upstairs landing is dim, lit by only a few candles on a side table, and it’s unclear whether the cobwebs in the corners are real or part of the decorations. Now that he knows that Archie isn’t still up here his first instinct is to just hang around for a while until the girl is gone, but something stirs at the edge of his vision; Reggie Mantle crushing himself up against some poor girl down the hall. Reggie is aptly dressed as Gaston, and even though he’s got his tongue firmly down the throat of some Greendalian Belle, the sight of him makes Jughead spin on his heel and look for an exit. Preferably one that isn’t guarded by Drunk Dany. A heart-shaped sign on a door catches his eye, and he gratefully slips inside the bathroom to give himself some time to regroup.

With a deep sigh, he leans against the door. Why is he here again? Whose idea was this? Silently, he curses Jellybean, then moves to flicks the light on, thinking he might as well make use of the facilities now that he’s in here.

Only he’s not alone.

He scrambles backwards with a loud yelp, away from the stranger in front of him who...who does exactly what Jughead does.

Because it is, in fact, a mirror.

He bursts out laughing, cheeks heating up with shame even though no one else is here to see his predicament. Then a scraping noise makes him turn around, and he meets the level gaze of a cat. A big, black cat, sitting in a litter box, looking thoroughly offended at Jughead’s intrusion.

“Sorry,” says Jughead automatically. “I’m under a lot of pressure right now, okay?” he adds.

The cat remains unimpressed so Jughead walks up to the mirror and searches his own features. He really doesn't look like himself. Perhaps he should take the opportunity to be someone else, just for the night. He could make it an undercover mission, to gather material for his new draft. Could he be a Gabe? A Frederic? Adam? Steve? Jean the European exchange student? Could he move with confidence through the crowds, talk to random people, observe teens in their natural habitat?

Maybe he could find Drunk Dany again and break his promise to Jellybean about not ruining his makeup. He pulls a face at the thought and resists running his fingers through his hair, then fiddles with the hood of the cloak instead. JB has given him very specific instructions to not use the hood. He pulls it up experimentally.

“What do you think?” he says to the cat, who’s now sitting on the bathroom rug, waiting for Jughead to open the door.

The cat, of course, says nothing. But it _looks_ like it’s saying ‘let me out of this bathroom, you pathetic human’. It’s a worryingly specific look.

He decides to keep the hood up until he’s safely away from Reggie, just in case. He also tells himself he’ll give Archie a second chance, possibly just to see how long it takes him to recognize him.

Drunk Dany has moved on, leaving the coast clear as Jughead makes his way downstairs again. He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, scanning the crowds for Archie, but the tell-tale jacket is nowhere in sight. With an irritated sigh, he gets his phone out to try and call him, but the first thing that that pops up on the screen when he unlocks it is the sms conversation with Betty, his unsent message still sitting in the text box. _Fuck it_ , he thinks tiredly, and slaps the cover shut again.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” someone says.

When Jughead turns around, the zombie girl is standing there, boldly gazing up at him. Up close, he realizes she’s familiar. Very familiar. It takes him a second before it clicks, but when it does, it sets his heart pounding. It’s Betty. Betty in full reanimated corpse makeup, barely recognizable underneath all the paint and prosthetics. Her cheek and neck are covered by realistic-looking wounds, oozing fake blood and pus, her skin is marbled with green-blue veins, and her hair is hanging in dusty, tangled clumps. He can’t believe he didn’t notice it was her before. She’s a far cry from her meticulously primped daytime self, but he’d know those eyes, those lips anywhere.

“Transylvania,” he says, finally finding his voice. “Family trip,” he adds, nodding at another passing vampire.

Betty laughs, and it’s the kind of laughter reserved for when a girl wants to make sure a guy knows she’s hanging onto his every word, and at the sound of it, Jughead’s heart sinks. She doesn’t know it’s him.

“How about you?” he asks.

For some reason, he decides there and then to play along. Maybe because it’s an easier way out than an awkward explanation. Maybe because the thought of getting that kind of attention from Betty Cooper is kind of exciting.

Maybe - and this is a small, shameful maybe - because he wants her to slowly realize and then feel bad about it.

“Small town nearby,” says Betty with a smile. She takes a sip of her drink, then swishes the contents of the glass around with a pained expression. “You wouldn’t have heard about it, the place is pretty dead.”

“Badum-tshh.”

That makes her smile again, and Jughead can’t help but grin back. She holds his gaze for way longer than necessary, until his heart starts thumping hard again.

_Okay then, Steve or Frederic or whatever you want to call yourself. Have you got game?_

“That looks painful,” he says, reaching up for her cheek. He brushes his fingers lightly over the fake wound, hoping she won’t notice the way his hand is trembling. “How’d you make it look so real?”

“Glue and cocoa,” she says, tipping her head to the side to let him have a closer look at her neck.

“I’m a vampire, remember,” Jughead says. “I’d strongly advise against jugular exposure.”

Betty laughs again, then sets her glass down on the floor and slips her arm through his.

“I’m hot,” she says. “Want to go outside for a bit?”

She doesn’t wait for him to reply, but leads him through the cramped hallway and outside on the porch. A new group of smokers are clustered below the fairy lights, so they move to the other corner of the veranda. It’s empty apart from a couple of moths; stragglers that haven’t yet given up on summer, lazily circling a grimy lantern.

It’s definitely chilly out here, their breaths coming in puffy, white clouds, but Betty doesn’t seem to mind much. She lets go of his arm and walks over to the handrail, leaning on it and gazing into the night. She’s probably had a couple of drinks, Jughead thinks bitterly, but he joins her all the same, staring into the darkness, trying to see what she sees.

“Do you ever feel like breaking the mold?” she asks suddenly.

That’s one hell of a question to ask a stranger, and Jughead scrambles for a witty reply. No, wait. Witty replies are what _Jughead_ does. What would Steve say?

“What do you mean?” he says. _All the time_ , he thinks to himself.

“I mean, aren’t you ever tired of doing what’s expected of you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if anyone expects much of me, to be honest.”

Betty tuts in annoyance. “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the person other people make you. The person you make yourself.” She spreads her hands in front of her, flexing her fingers slowly, inspecting the dark veins, the dirty fingernails. “Do you ever feel trapped in that... that _image_ if you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, no, I know what you mean,” Jughead says, promptly tossing Steve out the window. “Like, people expect you to act a certain way, dress a certain way, and if you suddenly didn’t…” ...they probably wouldn’t even know it was you, he finishes the sentence in his own head.

“Right,” says Betty emphatically. “And it’s not just that. What about all the things we’re missing out on, just because we’re stuck in the same groove.”

“Like what?” Jughead asks.

“I don’t know,” says Betty, waving her hand about. “Anything. Sports, electives, hobbies, books…”

“Food,” Jughead suggests, because honestly? For him, thoughts of food are never far away.

“Sure,” says Betty doubtfully.

“I’ve never tried sushi,” Jughead goes on. “I just seems like such a stupid concept. First of all, it’s fish. And it isn’t even cooked. And it’s wrapped in _seaweed_. I mean, how good can it possibly be?”

“It’s pretty good,” says Betty dismissively. “But I’m talking about _real_ stuff. Like thinking you know what job you’ll want in ten years time and basing all of your life decisions on that.”

“That’s the way the system works,” says Jughead.

They fall quiet for a while, and Jughead wonders how exactly he managed to botch this whole conversation, making it go from flirty to utterly depressing in the space of two minutes. Sushi? No game, Jughead Jones. No game at all. Now Steve...Steve wouldn’t have let it slip through his hands like this.

A gust of wind makes a flurry of leaves fly up from around their feet, and a stray one sticks to Betty’s tattered jumper. Jughead reaches out to brush it off, and she turns around and looks at him expectantly. Maybe the moment isn’t gone after all.

“Are you here with anyone?” he asks.

She gives him a funny look. “You’re someone, aren’t you?”

 _Not the one you think_. It isn’t fair, he thinks. It’s a stupid, petty game, and the longer it goes on, the worse it’ll get.

“Do you think we can choose who we love?” she asks, just as he’s about to open his mouth to fess up. “You know, because it’s what’s expected of us.”

“No,” he says instinctively. Love, he feels, should be primal and unexpected. Deserved and not designed. “At least I hope not.”

Betty reaches out a hand to fiddle with his cloak.

“I’m cold,” she says quietly.

“Do you want to go back inside?”

“No-o,” she says slowly, the shadow of a smile playing about her lips.

“Oh,” says Jughead, taking the hint. “Do you want to borrow this?” he asks, reaching up to unclasp his cloak, but she grabs his hand, her eyes flickering between his.

“No. I want you to kiss me.”

A thousand what ifs and shouldn’ts and wouldn’ts flash through his brain, and yet he finds himself slipping his hand behind her neck, threading his fingers through the tangles of her hair. This is a distraction from something, he knows, and yet he can’t help but bend down when she turns her face up.

The kiss is feather-light and quick, but it’s followed by another, and then another. He feels weirdly fixated with the feeling of her lips against his, with the fact that this is happening. The prospect of getting to kiss someone before he graduates from high school has always felt so unlikely that he’s stopped hoping it would, and now he’s suddenly here. The whole thing feels surreal and thrilling, and he prays he isn’t too bad at it.

He realizes he’s closed his eyes, and quickly flutters them open to assess the situation. Betty has hers closed, too, and she looks so lost in the moment it makes his heart soar. With a soft sigh, she parts her lips, so he does as well. Her tongue is warm against his and she tastes faintly of some alcohol, but right now he doesn’t care. With every kiss he feels more confident, until Betty suddenly inches closer, slipping her arm around his waist. Her body is warm and soft, and the gentle but unmistakable pressure of her breasts against his chest makes him wince silently. He doesn’t _want_ to stop, but he knows it’s getting out of hand.

“Wait,” he mumbles against her lips. “Betty, I..”

She pulls away uncertainly, her eyes filled with dread. Jughead swallows hard,

“I’m sorry,” he goes on. “It’s me. Jughead. I should have said…”

Betty frowns. “What?”

His arms feel leaden with guilt, but he makes himself reach up and lower his hood. “It’s me.”

She shakes her head slightly in confusion. “What are you talking about, Juggie? Who else would it be?”

His eyebrows fly up at that. “You mean you knew...you actually _wanted_ to…” he motions between them.

“Didn’t you?” Now she looks worried for real.

“I did,” he hurries to say, his head spinning with relief. “And I do. It's just that no one else recognized me. Not even Archie. So I thought…”

“It's a good costume,” she admits, running her hand over the cloak, down his chest. “But not _that_ good.”

“Yours is better,” he says, tracing the marbled pattern on her forehead with a finger.

“I know.” She pokes him playfully. “You didn't even know it was me the first two times.”

Betty reaches up for his hand and takes it, clasping it tightly, and in that short second all the what ifs and shouldn'ts and wouldn'ts take flight from his chest and disappear into the dark forest to make room for a thousand other questions to bubble up inside him.

They can wait though, Jughead decides as Betty sneaks her free arm around him again.

Almost all of them can wait.

“The fangs are gone, aren’t they?” he asks, carefully prodding his bottom lip. “JB’s going to kill me.”

Betty inspects him critically. “Not completely gone,” she says. Then she bobs up on her tiptoes to give him a quick kiss. “But I’m working on it.”


End file.
